A Fowl Case
by the one a.m. writer
Summary: Sherlock is put on the case when paintings in Ireland are stolen. Artemis is the perpetrator...
1. Chapter 1

_Artemis Fowl and Sherlock Holmes. I was struck by similarities._

Travelling to ridiculous places for a case is nothing new. John's actually appreciating Ireland, even if they are in the middle of nowhere.

Sherlock is on someone's trail.

An art thief, he says. Very, very good. Extraordinarily good. Only Sherlock would praise a thief so highly in the same heavy breath that's giving him the oxygen to chase him.

He's gone, Sherlock tells John.

Wow. John rests his hands on his knees. He is panting. His short legs are no match for Sherlock's height and limitless energy while on a case.

There is a twelve year old—no, fourteen, wow, he looks sixteen, but twelve at the same time. It's the slicked hair and the sunglasses and the tailored suit, John decides, that is affecting his assessment of this boy.

Excuse me? the boy says.

Yes, hello, John replies.

Do I know you from somewhere?

I doubt it, John says. Unless you follow London crime.

I do not, the boy responds. It's very shallow. I prefer to immerse myself in intellectual endeavors.

The boy walks away. From the minute he appeared, he was affixed in John's mind—the image of the suit and the glasses and the way he walked like the head of a lonely household. He's like a tiny Mycroft. But he was only a boy.

John doesn't catch the conversation that happens next.

Laying it on thick, there, Artemis?

What do you mean?

 _I prefer to immerse myself in intellectual endeavors._ That's pretentious, even for you.

Careful, Butler. I needed to see him, but then I had to give him an image of a spoiled rich child. His tall friend is on my trail.

What did you find out?

It really is John Watson.

Is it really?

…

Sherlock? Why are we here?

I have traced the art back to this location. I put a GPS tracker in the frame.

This is the slum part of the town.

The thief is taking a detour.

Of course.

A few more minutes pass as Sherlock strides through the streets and John jogs after.

Damn this!

Sherlock?

He found the tracker and gave it away!

John laughs.

John!

The man they are following instead of the art thief is a shady man. He stops and looks around. He roots in a backpack.

He was kind enough to lead me to a dealer, at least, Sherlock says, and goes in for an arrest.

…

Where to next? John asks. What's the next lead?

I don't understand how he finds my bugs. I don't understand how he gets into these places, anyway!

Have you tried finding out if he's selling the art?

Of _course_ I have, Sherlock spits.

John does a google search. Then he goes deeper. Years with Sherlock taught him, if nothing else, how to google things that aren't meant to be found by authorities.

This takes him very, very deep.

Sherlock is moping.

Sherlock is moping and John is searching frantically. If he doesn't finish before Sherlock starts shooting things, their pleasant trip to Ireland is in danger of being broken up by Mycroft.

Huh. Mycroft.

I met your brother's mini-me today, John mentions.

Really?

Yeah. Rich and acts like he runs the world.

When?

I was recovering and you ran off. A kid came up to me and asked if he knew me.

And you said?

Yes, if he followed London crime.

And he said? Sherlock prompts, leaning forward, alert.

He said he prefers to immerse himself in intellectual endeavors, John recalls, adopting a snooty voice.

Sherlock is now intensely staring at nothing, gazing into the air with concentration akin to a child trying to use the Force. John takes it to mean he is in his mind palace, and now he should be left alone.

But he cannot leave Sherlock alone. He found a piece of art.

Sherlock!

What is it? Sherlock snaps.

 _Dance of the Sugarplum Fey._

You found it?

Yes. This man they call the Mole. He doesn't like the sunlight.

I've heard of him. Mycroft says he has connections with a rich family in Ireland. I don't know which one or what those connections are.

It's a step forward, though, r—

John.

Yes?

Shut up.

John shuts up.

…

So Sugarplum Fey aren't your style? the girl asks, fixing a sandwich with practiced efficiency.

Not really.

What was wrong with them?

Nothing was wrong with them; that's the issue, Juliet. I'm looking for a painting that has something wrong with it.

So you gave it away…

I disliked the owner.

Cool.

Artemis clicks open a webpage.

That London crime-solver again, Artemis? Someone might think you're obsessed.

I think he's on my trail, Juliet. I'm concerned.

Why would he care about you stealing Irish art from Irish people?

Perhaps he knows about what I'm looking for.

I thought it was a fairy thing.

Perhaps all he knows is that it's important, not what it is.

…

Mycroft knows of the fairies. How could he not? He does not concern himself with them; he does not interact with them; he does not acknowledge their presence. But he passes information to his little brother about a painting of importance and lets the difficulty of the case be the draw for him, rather than the contents of what he is protecting.

…

Without another word, Sherlock jumps up and gathers his things. John does as well.

Where are we going?

The Fowl manor.

As in gross?

Eff Oh Double-you Ell.

As in birds?

As in a rich and crime-soaked family in Ireland. I can't believe I didn't make the connection sooner.

Oh.

As far as I know, the acting head of household isn't an adult. It's a young boy.

That boy I met? John asks, stricken.

The very same, I believe.

They make it to the manor… and there is security everywhere.

Sherlock? What are we going to do?

Knock on the front door, Sherlock says. He has a plan.

So they knock.

A man answers the door. This is not accurate. A behemoth of a human answers the door.

Hello, John says.

Hello, Sherlock says. Can I speak with Mr. Fowl?

And who are you?

Sherlock Holmes. Cons—

I know who Sherlock Holmes is. Come inside. If you try anything funny, you should know that not only does this manor have security technology beyond anything you know of; I and my coworker have mastered every named fighting style that exists and quite a few unnamed ones.

Oh, John says. It's not like he was feeling tiny and weak already.

They are sat on a couch that fits the two of them comfortably. There is a chair across from the couch.

The boy John met takes the chair.

Hello, Sherlock, John, he says. I am Artemis Fowl. I've read your blog. I'm a fan.

John is angry, just a little, but the mountain man's threat keeps him silent.

What are you looking for? Sherlock says. In that art.

You think I would tell that to someone who's trying to stop me?

I'm not trying to stop you. I appreciate your work with the _Sugarplum Fey_. The owner was about to use that piece to close a lucrative business deal that would put one of my best informants out of business.

You never told me that! John says.

It wasn't important. You might not have looked so hard for the piece then. And right now, I am sure Mycroft is not listening.

Your brother, the British government.

Yes.

What are you trying to do, then?

Find out what's in the painting you want.

I can't tell you that.

I would be careful; Mycroft has assigned me to this case, and with the information he has right now, he can find, expose, and destroy your fortune, if I come back and mention that you had a hand in the stealing of the other painting, the _Rose Garden of Nymphs_ —or if I don't come back at all. But if I go back with news that you were not involved, on the other hand, he will leave you alone. I suggest you tell me.

There is much you don't know. I will not tell you.

Sherlock… John warns.

Then tell me how you got in.

I look up to you, Artemis says. Truly, I do. But I cannot tell you. And I never touched the painting _Rose Garden of Nymphs_.

Please.

No. Butler, if you will?

Butler gently guides Sherlock and John outside and sets them down.

Now what? John asks.

Sherlock is thinking.

Sherlock.

He had someone steal the painting for him! Sherlock shouts. He stomps away. Time to return to London.

Just like that?

He looks up to me; he helps my informants; he can be left alone.

Your ego, honestly…

Eventually, I will find his big secret.

…

No, you will not, Artemis says, watching the screen as Holmes and Watson leave.

You had a hand in Rose Garden, Butler says.

Yes, but Mulch stole it for me.

Butler laughs. Holmes was right.

Of course.

You really do look up to him.

Of course.

John is walking away, but Sherlock takes out a piece of paper and writes quickly.

Turkeys and hens and eagles are all right; geese and albatross and magpie and egrets I like. Ibis and sparrows get along fine and owls and nighthawks are friends, it says in shorthand. He drops it. Butler retrieves it.

I don't understand, Butler says.

It's a silly code, Artemis says. He says xxxxx*

Odd.

Fun. Artemis steeples his fingers.

 ***please tell me what Sherlock said! Hint: it's a simple code and a very Sherlock phrase.**

 **The end**

 **Shorthand is very pretty**

 **From your Author: Sometimes you just have to take a chance with writing style.**


	2. Chapter 2

_[Six months later]_

Sherlock has pieces of art printed out and draped over every chair in the living room.

These aren't your style, John says. You don't like fantasy paintings.

No. They're useless.

So please tell me, for the love of God, why there are pictures of fairies blanketing our flat.

Oh. Those.

Oh, those?

John, please do a Wikipedia search on the author of each painting.

What are we looking for? John asks, more resigned than anything. He casts his mind back six months to the boy in Ireland. Artemis Fowl must have wormed his way into Sherlock's brain.

Something about them being a recluse or a night owl. And check the birth and death date of the author against significant events in his lifetime and the date on his pictures.

Sherlock.

Yes?

There are hundreds of pictures here, and I imagine recluse describes half of them. This looks like every picture of fairies in Ireland.

It is.

This doesn't even surprise John.

Well, preceding 1950.

Right, because that's such an improvement, John grouses. Why are we looking for this?

The boy, Artemis, is only taking paintings that follow a pattern, although I have not yet narrowed it down. I want to catch him in the act.

John grins. I'll do this on one condition.

What is that condition?

Go solve some cases that pay. I don't care if you leave the house or not, but our bills do not pay themselves. I imagine I'll be busy for long enough anyway.

Fine. Sherlock flicks open his laptop screen and scrolls the website. He begins typing immediately.

…

Far away on a pedestrian scale, cheek-to-cheek on a global one, a miniature art thief is letting his computer do his work.

It's scanning Wikipedia for the social habits of Irish artists, and fact-checking their birth and death dates against important events in their life.

Much more frequently than the little genius would like, the computer stops to ask him if it's on the right track. Powerful it may be, but the nuances of the English language still escape its grasp.

Butler.

Yes, Artemis?

This is tedious.

Come down and have a sandwich, Butler suggests.

I need to find a way to make it _understand English,_ Artemis says.

That's called A.I., sir, Butler says.

…

Oh, God, John says, rubbing his temples. He's pretty sure his eyeballs are shaking. He has never needed to know this much about Irish artists.

Sherlock.

Yeah?

Can you teach me how to delete information?

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, and seems to determine (correctly) that John isn't serious.

How long have you been working on this?

Whole day.

Sixteen hours.

That long?

Yes. You seem to have forgotten that you started late at night.

Oh, God, John repeats.

There is some good news here.

What's that?

If there is any mention of them enjoying direct, full sunlight, you can eliminate them immediately. I went through the stolen pictures again. All of the authors had a distinct wariness around sunlight.

Huh. That's… a nice tip, actually.

Go to sleep.

Why?

So you are rested. You were up all night.

Are you actually concerned for my wellbeing?

Lestrade has promised me a case tomorrow and I think it's a two man job, Sherlock says instead, even though John knows full well that cases were never a two man job before he came along.

…

I have a new target, Artemis says.

Oh, goodie, the voice on the other end of the line says.

The security system is… advanced.

Artemis says the system's advanced? Oh, boy. A real test of my talents.

Funny you should say that.

Why?

You are going to be tripping the security system at a precise moment at the other end of the building.

Mulch groans. I don't like this plan.

Well, it's the one that'll get me this painting.

How much is it worth?

Artemis whispers the number. Mostly for dramatic effect.

Mulch whistles.

…

John has made a dent in his piles of paintings. The untouched ones are on the left side of the desk, and the ones he's done have ended up in one of three piles: maybe, no, and painter unknown.

Two piles, technically, as the middle one is located in the recycle bin.

Across the flat, Sherlock shouts in surprise.

What is it?

A painting was stolen!

One of the fairies?

Yes!

Sherlock shows John the picture.

I looked at that one! John says. It ran off all sorts of flags.

Next time one like that comes up, hand it to me, Sherlock says.

John hands him two paintings.

Both of these?

Yes.

Come on, then! Sherlock shouts, shrugging on a coat.

…

The heist took a long time, and it was to no avail. Artemis sells the painting within 48 hours after scanning it relentlessly.

He has nothing against the owners he has just divested of their painting, so he gives it back to them. For a small price, of course. Nowhere near what the picture was worth.

Artemis returns to his computer.

…

John watches Sherlock put his coat on, but makes no move to do so himself. What are we doing? he asks.

We are going to find those paintings.

And prevent Artemis from stealing them?

Yes.

How?

 _We_ are going to steal them.

John opens his mouth. Sherlock prepares for a speech about morals.

You don't know where these paintings are or what security systems they have, John says. I refuse to make this up on the go.

Sherlock grins.

And he's a master thief, John adds. How do you beat him at his own game?

By having something he doesn't.

John does not play into this kept-in-suspense routine. He arches an eyebrow instead of asking what Sherlock has that Artemis does not.

Connections, Sherlock sighs with visibly less grandeur than he intended.

…

I didn't realize your connections with the man who owns the painting.

No, just one of his guests.

Ah.

Straighten your tie, Sherlock said, stepping out of the car. John did so and followed.

What is the plan here?

For now, we look, Sherlock said. And then I will think of the next step.

Okay.

The party John and Sherlock were walking into served one clear purpose: to show off this man's house. It was an art auction as well, although the particular piece they were looking at was not for purchase. For that reason, it was placed out of reach, but still in view.

Sherlock admired it.

The women in the garden were exquisitely drawn, and so were the flowers. There was nothing in this painting to indicate the reasons for Artemis's interest.

The frame was solid and ornate. Sherlock skimmed the frame. No secret panels. No symbols carved into it.

He scanned the artwork also.

It took Artemis two days to put the painting on the market or back after he stole it. That meant that he didn't know what he was looking for any more than Sherlock did.

Well, perhaps a little more, Sherlock admitted.

There was a reason he was searching for paintings of fairies.

The owner of the house, a tall, willowy man, brushed by Sherlock, and Sherlock watched him go as well. The man was nearing his 50s, but moved with the agility of someone younger. He stopped to cast his gaze upon that picture, and then flitted away.

What security systems were in place?

Cameras, for one. Cameras everywhere. Guards. And, at this moment, many rich people.

An alarm would certainly sound if the painting was jostled or removed.

Sherlock contemplates the painting.

No, the alarm would sound if the _frame_ was jostled or removed. If he could…

Sherlock shakes his head and walks over to find John, whom he can bounce ideas off of.

What do you think? John asks.

I have ideas. What do you think of our host?

He's friendly. He's confident. He loves talking about his art. I think he's taller than you.

No.

Yes.

Sherlock frowns. John laughs.

I could steal it, Sherlock said, but I examined the piece carefully, and there is little chance that what Artemis is looking for is in this painting.

If you stole it, Artemis would be alerted.

Yes.

Is that good or bad? John asks.

It could be a very good thing. He will know that we are on his trail, and closing faster than he is. He will be forced to move forward quickly, and maybe make mistakes, or confront me.

He already kind of confronted you.

He did… he did! Oh! Stupid, stupid. Of course!

What is it?

He already knows we are on his trail, and looking for the paintings. He knows we haven't given up. I put too much thought into the painting itself, and spared almost none for Artemis's personality.

So why is he letting us search?

Because we might find it.

John levels his gaze at Sherlock, unimpressed.

He wants to find this thing. He knows I'm driven by curiosity, rather than a desire to comply with the law.

So what's to ensure that you don't find his secret?

Nothing. I believe he is sure that I will come to him with it.

Why?

Perhaps it requires a key that he has.

So pick the lock.

There's a long pause in the wake of that statement.

Not a key, he says finally. Information. He has information which the puzzle is useless without.

So you'll go, then, John says with a sigh. You'll go to him when you find the painting.

Yes.

You don't know what information you're handing him.

True. But I do know that Mycroft thinks it is concerning.

Ah. You aren't working against Artemis.

Not anymore.

Are you going to tell him this?

No. He would change what he is doing.

Are we stealing this painting? John asks.

We have to, in order to show Artemis that we are doing what he perceives to be our job.

But is it the painting he is looking for?

I don't believe so, but I need to check everything. The minutia of the brushstroke. The back of the painting.

So ask.

What?

Our host. He loves talking about his art.

The piece we are looking at _is_ his favorite…

Sherlock is striding away before he finishes his sentence. John strides awkwardly after, doing his best not to run.

Wait, Sherlock says.

What?

Since we need to give the illusion of thievery, we don't need to steal the painting. So you ask him if he's found any secret compartments, and then I come in and tell him that I believe his painting is in danger and wish to work with him to hide it for a couple days.

How do I-? John starts, but Sherlock is already gone.

John catches the man, Dr. Munroe, close to the banister, and on the opposite side of the room as his painting.

Hello, he says. I was admiring your painting of fairies.

Ah. _Pixies Hortulani_. Yes.

 _Pixies Hortulani?_ The gardening pixies, John translates.

Very good! You know your Latin, Dr. Munroe praises. Mister…

Doctor, actually. Dr. James Wesson.

A doctor of what?

Medicine.

Hence the Latin.

Yes.

Very good. What did you think about the painting, Dr. Wesson?

It's an exquisite work. How did you acquire it?

If you can believe it, the artist's great grandson was selling some of his old paintings.

That's incredible. Did you ever hear of the story of the fairy paintings? John asks. There's a story that an old Irish artist hid a secret message in a painting of fairies.

Ha! Dr. Munroe exclaims in loud surprise. That would be funny.

John smiles.

I've examined this painting many times over, not looking for secrets, of course. But I think if one had been there, I would have found it.

Ah. That's okay. I'm not sure if I believe the story myself. Your painting just reminded me of it.

I, for one, like to believe in fairy tales, Dr. Munroe says. It makes life interesting.

That it does, John says.

The painting itself represents a fairy tale, you know.

The gardening pixies?

Yes. You see, the story goes…

Dr. Munroe rambles on for several minutes. John listens intently. He can see Sherlock creeping by, and he taps his thigh in a sign for negative. No secret compartments.

Sherlock sees.

John leaves the conversation shortly after that with as much grace as possible. Sherlock whisks up to Dr. Munroe as if he was waiting for him to finish talking to John.

Dr. Munroe, I have some bad news.

What? Who are you?

Greg Lestrade, detective, Sherlock says, flashing the badge. He covers Lestrade's sandy hair. I have reasonable suspicion that someone is going to attempt to steal your painting tonight. Someone's been going after Irish paintings of fey.

Oh, dear!

We want to work with you to hide the painting for two days. We would act like it had been stolen in order to draw out the thief.

Yes. Good idea. Good idea.

Sherlock brought in John and introduced him as an undercover detective, and together with Dr. Munroe, they smuggled the painting out of the art room.

…

How did they steal it that fast? Artemis asked, more in wonder than in anger. From what I know of Holmes and Watson, they are not thieves.

Exactly two days later, the painting is returned without fanfare.

The news reports this theft as perpetrated by the same thief as all the others, Butler says.

Yes. They've followed my style.

A few days later, however, several slip-ups in interviews tell Artemis the story. The entire setup was in an effort to draw out a thief. The painting was safe in Dr. Munroe's house the whole time.

Ah, Artemis says. That's how.

…

For months, this campaign continues between cases. Sherlock and John repeat the same stunt over and over, although it's clear they've asked the owners of the art to stay quiet about this. Artemis continues to steal and return.

And it's Sherlock who finally finds the painting they're looking for.

There's a decorative border on the tapestries in this great hall, but on closer inspection, they are odd symbols. The man who painted it was a recluse who stayed in his house all day and would only emerge in the moonlight. He also appears to have lived through several events that spanned much more than a normal lifetime.

We have to steal this one, Sherlock says.

Not fake steal? John confirms.

Not fake steal.

What would take Artemis a week takes them a month. It involves gaining the owner's trust and getting him drunk, then asking him to walk them through the security system. Then it involves playing poker with some security officers, using chips designed to capture fingerprints. Then it involves figuring out the timing of the shifts, making sure one officer is delayed, sneaking into the security room, disabling the security using several fingerprints.

Then they have to steal the painting.

There's always a guard posted next to the painting.

Sherlock's method for this obstacle is less delicate. He tranquilizes him with a dart. He and John lift the painting from its frame. They leave the frame on the wall. They vanish.

When they're sitting out in the muggy Irish air, several miles away from the scene of their crime, John speaks for the first time in hours.

Oh my God.

He repeats it.

Oh. My. God.

Sherlock grins.

They both start laughing.

…

Artemis isn't surprised by the knock on his door. He also knows exactly what's in the poster tube.

Come in, he says.

Hello, Sherlock says.

You knew you didn't have the code, Artemis guesses.

Yes. You think you have the code.

I do have the code.

Artemis produces a notebook in which he's steadily transcribed a good amount of the words in the fairy language.

They sit down to translate, and Artemis doesn't mention that he's swapped around all the nouns in the translation book. Adjectives too, for good measure.

What comes out of the painting is complete gibberish.

Oh, Artemis says, trying to look very, very disappointed. In fact, he is ecstatic. He knows exactly what the painting says.

Sorry, John says.

He and Sherlock depart.

…

Butler, we have work to do, Artemis says.

…

Let's get back to London, John says.

Sherlock is glaring at nothing.

What?

I feel like he wasn't being truthful about that translation.

You saw how disappointed he was.

Sherlock nods.

How about this? John asks. If he comes up again, we go after him, and insist he knew that the translation was wrong.

Okay, Sherlock says. Oh, I hope we see him in the news soon.

John shakes his head and laughs, not believing that they will.

…

 **Maybe you hate me for leaving it here. Sorry.**

 **If someone wants to pick it up, go for it. If I get a lot of positive feedback, I might continue. But for now, it's done. (My brain is picked clean!)**

 **-the one a. m. writer**


End file.
